


Chosen's Choice

by trickybonmot



Series: Sherlock in Valdemar [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Valdemar Series - Mercedes Lackey
Genre: Companions, Contrary Sherlock, Crossover, De-Aged Characters, Gen, Herald John, Teenage Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:45:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trickybonmot/pseuds/trickybonmot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I should think it was obvious,” came the voice, closer to the door now. “That Companion is trying to Choose me, and I don’t want to be Chosen. I’m rejecting the offer.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chosen's Choice

**Author's Note:**

> Sigh! I never thought I would do this, but then [PrettyArbitrary's thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/933176) happened, and suddenly...Herald!John fic!

_:Chosen. Wake up.:_

John groaned wordlessly as the gentle mind-voice penetrated the haze of sleep in which he had been floating, comfortable for the first time in days. This was the first proper way-station they’d come to in ages, and he had fully intended to enjoy it.

_:Come on, John. Wake up.:_

John rolled over, opening his eyes a crack. It was still pitch-dark in the way-station’s single room. Definitely far too early to be awake again.

“What is it?” he grumbled.

 _:It’s Brenna. She’s...having trouble.:_ He could sense from the tone that Jessamy was being evasive, but he was too surprised to really take note of it.

 _:Brenna?:_ he mindspoke. _:Brenna the Companion?:_

_:Of course Brenna the Companion, sleepy. Who else? She’s nearby. She needs us.:_

_:Nearby? But we’re a thousand leagues from Haven. What’s an unpaired Companion doing out here?:_

_:What do you_ think _, John?:_ Amusement colored her mindvoice. She shared a memory with him, then, and for a moment he saw what she had seen, felt what she had felt: hoofsore but satisfied, coming at last upon the scanty farmstead where she would find her Chosen, the tow-headed boy who was at this very moment curled up in the hayloft, afraid to go back in the house where he could hear his angry father’s thoughts. Jessamy felt his pain and need like a beacon, and she knew he was _the one_. The knowledge filled her with joy.

The memory ended. John blinked, returning to himself.

_:Is that really what it was like?:_

_:Of course.:_ He could almost see the irritable swish of her tail. _:Now please do get up. Brenna’s found her Chosen, but it’s...complicated.:_

Bidding a final reluctant farewell to his comfortable bed, John did as she asked. He still wasn’t sure what to make of Jessamy’s request. If Brenna or her new Chosen were in serious danger, she would have woken him much more urgently, and he would have been dressed and in the saddle before he could have formed a coherent question. So it wasn’t life-or-death...but what was it?

***

It was near dawn by the time they arrived at their destination, an old woodsman’s hut some little way outside the village of Farmeet. Outside the hut stood a Companion, her white fur and silver hooves gleaming in the dim blue light of earliest morning. Most non-Heralds couldn’t tell Companions apart, but John knew Brenna well. He’d been a trainee at Haven when she was foaled five years ago. There’d been a fair bit of speculation about when she would finally Choose, and who the lucky youngster would be.

The lucky youngster, in this case, had evidently locked himself in the hut. Brenna stood outside, her nose pressed to the crack of the door. When John and Jessamy drew near, she swung her head briefly to look at them, and John could see a terrible sorrow in her eyes.

_:What’s the situation?:_

Jessamy sighed deeply, her barrel expanding noticeably between his knees.

_:It’s the boy. He won’t...he doesn’t want her._

John could only sit speechless for a moment. Not _want_ her? You couldn’t not want a Companion.

_:So what should I...what can I do?:_

_:She was hoping you could talk to him,:_ Jessamy said sadly. _:She thinks he might respond better to a human being. And since he won’t look at her, she still can’t mindspeak him. And also,:_ she paused, as though verifying something, _:also, he’s shielded.:_

_:Shielded? But I thought he was untrained.:_

_:He is. Self-taught, apparently. He is quite strongly Gifted in mindspeech, and he also has a bit of fetching, foresight, and...something else, some rogue thing.:_

_Gods_ , John thought. Young, Gifted, untrained, and already under enough control to shield himself, to some extent, from a Companion. He could not help but reflect that his own life would have been quite different if he could have worked out shielding on his own.

 _:What’s his name?:_ he asked, dismounting.

_:Sherlock.:_

John approached the door cautiously. He laid his hand on Brenna’s shoulder for moment, wishing he could reassure her, then knocked.

“Sherlock?” he called, trying to sound compassionate, and _not_ like the uniformed authority figure he was.

“Go away!” came a voice from within. Its owner was clearly frightened, but trying to conceal it with hauteur. The fear gave John some hope of resolving this situation; he’d heard before of children who were frightened of Companions because they didn’t know what they were. This was no child, though; his voice was deep and clear, past puberty.

“Sherlock, I’m here to help. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“I should think it was obvious,” came the voice, closer to the door now. “That Companion is trying to Choose me, and I don’t want to be Chosen. I’m rejecting the offer.”

John could only gape for a moment. _:Jess?:_ he asked, at last. _:Has this ever happened before?:_

“You can stop searching for a precedent,” Sherlock snapped. “There isn’t any. I’ve looked it up.”

_:He’s right.:_

“Okay,” John said. “Okay, you’re right. Nobody’s ever done this before. Look, can I please talk to you? Face to face?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “Only if that Companion promises not to look at me. I do not consent to speak to it.”

John glanced at Brenna, who turned her face away. John’s heart ached for her.

“She promises,” John said. “Now will you please open the door?”

A latch clicked, and John found himself face-to-face with a striking young man. He was probably about sixteen, with a sharp, pale face and dark hair that framed his high cheekbones in untidy ringlets. He might have been quite handsome if he smiled, but at the moment his mouth was clenched in a belligerent frown, and his green-grey eyes shone with defiance. He was dressed in plain, practical clothes, and behind him in the hut John glimpsed a lit lantern and a workbench strewn with equipment of some kind. The boy looked at John sidelong, clutching the door with one white-knuckled hand, clearly more frightened than he wanted to show. Responding to that fear, John did his best to seem small and nonthreatening (not actually difficult, since the lanky youth was taller than he by several inches; John had learned by now that his size could be useful in situations like this). He raised his empty hands, keeping them in view.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to his hands, then disdainfully back up again. “You needn’t treat me like a skittish colt,” he said. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Then what are you afraid of?” John asked. When Sherlock didn’t answer, he went on. “I’m sorry, I obviously don’t understand the whole situation. You don’t want to talk to Brenna because...?”

“I’ve already said I don’t want to be Chosen. What more do you need to know?”

“But...why?” John asked, at a loss. Beside him, Brenna huffed; he was clearly not handling this as eloquently as she had hoped he would.

“It’s coercive,” Sherlock said. John drew back a little, shocked. The Companions held very still. “I want to live my own life,” the boy went on. “Make my own decisions. I don’t want to be fooled into loving a being whose only purpose is to conscript me to serve my queen and country.”

John’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment. “But it’s not like that,” he said at last.

“Isn’t it? Tell me, Herald, if I look into that creature’s eyes, can you deny that I will be overcome with emotion? Can you deny that I will be forever changed?”

“First of all,” John said, starting to get angry, “Brenna is not a _creature_. She’s an intelligent being who is here because--” he paused, trying to articulate what he had sensed in Jessamy’s memory of Choosing him. “--Because she feels that you can complete her. You’re her reason for being, Sherlock.”

“Then she’s being used as well,” Sherlock retorted. “It’s not my responsibility to make her whole. If she’s unhappy, she should pray to the gods who made her this way.”

For what seemed like the tenth time since this conversation began, John was too shocked to speak. Could Sherlock really be so indifferent to the pain he was causing? Could Brenna really consider Choosing someone so heartless?

 _:He’s not indifferent,:_ Jessamy said. _:Look at him. He’s not afraid of her, he’s afraid of giving in. Afraid he doesn’t really have the strength to refuse. He needs to prove to himself that his will is stronger than his emotions.:_

_:But that’s--ye gods, he’ll break up in pieces.:_

_:Perhaps, but--:_

_:Let me speak to him.:_ This was a new mindvoice; it took John a moment to realize that it was Brenna. He’d never been bespoken by any Companion other than Jessamy. _:We may communicate without being joined, if he will allow it. I could push past his shields, but he would not forgive me.:_

 _:Are you sure about him?:_ John asked, thankful that their communication was so much faster than speech, not to mention more private. _:He doesn’t strike me as Heraldic material.:_

 _:I am sure of my Choice,:_ she answered, and John sensed a faint rebuke. _:Ask, please._

John turned his attention back to Sherlock, who was watching him with narrowed eyes, no doubt sensing that he was engaged in silent conversation.

“She’d like to speak to you,” John said, not bothering to hide his anger at Sherlock’s arrogance. “She’s perfectly capable of doing that without sucking you into some maelstrom of messy feelings, if that’s what you’re afraid of. And by the way, she’s also more than capable of penetrating whatever shields you think you’ve got, but for some reason that escapes me, she respects your wishes enough not to do this. Will you show her the same respect?”

Sherlock blinked quickly, the only sign that he was discomfited by John’s assertion.

“Very well,” he said, after a long moment.

 _:Sherlock.:_ To John’s surprise, Brenna included him in her link with the boy, so that he could hear their conversation. Her mindvoice sounded serene, though he knew that she must be in torment.

 _:Companion,:_ Sherlock thought back, making it a title of respect. _:I hear your voice.:_

_:I cannot force you to be my Chosen, nor would I, if I could. But I had hoped that you were ready to come of your own accord. We might do great good together. The world is larger than your workshop here.:_

_:I know it,:_ Sherlock answered. _:I have every intention of seeing it. And as for great good, can I not do that on my own? Is it only Heralds who may serve the cause of justice?:_

His mind-voice was quite different from what John had expected: calm and decisive. He had thought through these arguments before, perhaps long since.

 _:No,:_ Brenna replied. _:You may do well on your own. But you are Gifted, Sherlock, more than you know. It is true that a part of my purpose is to develop your potential, and to see that your powers are directed toward the cause whose agent I am. But I am also here to offer you a point of stability, a partnership on which you may rely when your path becomes difficult, as it surely will.:_

_:What will happen to me if I refuse?:_

Brenna paused as though considering her answer carefully. _:There are some among our number who would consider a boy like you too dangerous to leave on his own,:_ she said, and John tensed. _:Some would say that your alternatives to being Chosen would be to have your Gifts blocked, or to be exiled. Valdemar can ill afford rogue Talents within her borders. However, I have no wish to see such things happen to you, and--and I am still sure of my Choice. I am sure of your heart.:_

Sherlock paused before answering, and John thought he sensed...relief? Surprise? _:Thank you, Lady.:_

_:I ask again: will you be my Chosen?:_

_:Lady, I will not,:_ Sherlock answered firmly. _:Can you not Choose another?:_

Brenna lowered her head in sad acknowledgement. _:There is but one for me, and you are he. Therefore, I ask this: may I come to you again, some day? Will you permit the possibility that you might change your mind?:_

_:You would give me such a chance? I thought--I thought one was only offered such a choice once in a lifetime.:_

_:It has never needed to happen twice. Do you consent to this, then?:_

_:My Lady,:_ Sherlock answered, _:though I cannot promise my feelings will change, I am not so foolish as to turn down a second chance.:_

 _:Very well,:_ said Brenna. _Until then._

With that, the Companion raised her proud head high, squared herself, then turned and walked resolutely from the clearing. John watched her go with a curious mixture of sorrow and admiration. He turned to make some rebuke to Sherlock, but stopped when he saw tears on the boy’s cheeks. When Sherlock noticed John looking at him, he hastily wiped them away with the heel of his hand.

“Well, Herald,” he said thickly, “what do you suggest I do now?”

“None of this surprised you,” said John, refusing to answer the question. “Did you expect to be Chosen?”

Sherlock nodded. “Since I was eleven. Pretty obvious what was going to happen, with the Gifts coming on and Mycroft already Chosen. I knew they’d come for me.”

“Mycroft Holmes? The Seneschal’s Herald?” John could only guess at the connection. “Are you his--nephew?”

“Brother,” said Sherlock. “I know we don’t look alike.”

It was more than a difference in looks. Mycroft Holmes might be brilliant and reliable, but he was the most prim and conventional man John had ever met. Sherlock, with his secret workshop (what had he been doing in there?) and his outlandish plan to reject a Companion’s choice, was as different from his brother as night from day. Moreover, Mycroft would certainly have kittens if he found out what had happened, and however amusing that might be, John couldn’t wish the consequences on Sherlock. He sighed.

“I’ll have to put something in the official report,” he said.

Sherlock nodded, looking miserable. John tried to imagine the scene he would be in for. He knew something of Myrcroft’s parents: landed, long history of public service both as Heralds and bureaucrats, stern and unimaginative enough to take this out of Sherlock’s hide, emotionally if not physically.

“I suppose I can keep your name out of it,” John relented. “But...you must know that you can’t hide from this forever. Heralds will keep on finding you, and they’ll keep on wondering what you are. Did you have a plan for...afterward?”

Sherlock looked sullen. “I suppose I thought I’d run away.”

“Don’t do that,” said John. “Don’t _run _.__ But...you might honestly consider going somewhere. Hardorn, maybe. They have that university; perhaps you could go there _ _.”__

“Perhaps,” said Sherlock, though he still sounded unsure.

“I think you should be able to hang on here until you’re of age. Behave as though nothing has happened. Tell your parents where you’re going; don’t sever ties. Do they know you’re Gifted?”

“No,” said Sherlock. “I kept it secret.”

 _No mean feat,_ John thought, but out loud he said simply, “That’ll make it easier.”

For a moment he simply stood looking at Sherlock, pinching his lower lip in thought. The boy was a conundrum, and no mistake. Sherlock looked back at him, and John felt--something. A sudden onrush of sympathy for his curious predicament, a longing to protect him, to see him safely through.

 _:Chosen,:_ said Jessamy. _:I believe we can go. The village elders will be expecting us soon.:_

John shook himself. “Right,” he said. Sherlock looked startled; of course he hadn’t heard Jessamy speaking. John turned to him.

“I can’t stay,” he said. “But I’ll be in Farmeet today, and I’ll be in the area for a while longer. Do you--will you be all right?”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. His eyes looked large.

“Well if you do need anything, I suppose you can mindcall?”

 _:I should be able to manage,:_ Sherlock replied, his mindvoice remarkably clear and strong for someone so young.

“Right then,” said John. He didn’t want to mindspeak with Sherlock; it reminded him too strongly of the painful conversation with Brenna. “I’ll go.”

Sherlock watched him mount Jessamy. As an afterthought John added, “You can write to me at Haven, if you like. My name is John. John Watson.”

Sherlock said nothing more, only stood watching from the shelter of the doorway as John and Jessamy rode off, taking the path that Brenna had taken out of the clearing. John looked back once, but Sherlock had closed the door. He felt unsettled, full of doubts.

 _:I think you did well,:_ said Jessamy.

_:Well, that’s a comfort. You don’t think I should have--I don’t know. Taken him with us? Made more of a fuss?:_

_:No. It would only have confirmed his opinion of Heralds as bureaucratic automata. Brenna said she was sure of him. I don’ think he’ll do any harm.:_

_:Well it’s no wonder he thinks of Heralds that way, if the one he knows best is Mycroft Holmes.:_ He rolled his eyes, and felt Jess chuckling. _:But still. I hope he stays out of trouble, for his own sake.:_

***

When John returned to Haven, he included an account of the strange incident in his official report. He didn’t mention how strongly the boy was Gifted, and he didn’t mention Sherlock by name. The truth was, he rather expected that someone official would ask him about it and he’d have to tell the whole story, but to his surprise, no one ever did. It was a long time before he stopped wondering when it would come to light, and longer still before he stopped wondering what had become of Sherlock Holmes.

Going over his old reports several years later, he came upon the account of his visit to the region around Farmeet. He had gathered his share of physical and mental scars by then in Valdemar’s endless border conflicts with neighboring Karse, and the thought of his encounter with the strange, stubborn, mercurial boy filled him with a kind of nostalgia. But when he turned to the section of the report where that account should have been, he found not a word about it. It was not that it had been torn out; there was his own handwriting, flowing neatly along the page, quite uninterrupted. It recorded the night they had spent at the waystation, and the subsequent visit with the Farmeet village elders. There was no mention of Sherlock, or of Brenna, or of anything else occurring in between. Puzzled, he looked through the rest of his reports, wondering if one too many blows to the head had scrambled his memories, but he could find no trace.

He spoke to Jessamy. She was more than happy to discuss Brenna and Sherlock, but he when brought up the missing section of the report, she would say nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it. I expect I'll be writing sequels to this, so don't forget to subscribe if you want to know about those. Also, you can follow me on [tumblr.](http://trickybonmot.tumblr.com)


End file.
